UNFORTUNATELY, JIM’S BIG SPENDERS THAT first night didn’t include Grant. Or the night after that. Or the next. Days turned into weeks. It seemed as if I’d been stuck in this hellhole forever, and there was still no sign of my former lover, or any of his Teammates. I’d gone from star of the SFSU drama department with a promising future, living my dreams, moonlighting with the best thespians at American Conservatory Theater, to a lowly stripper with limited hope, stuck in a nightmare, dancing—if you could call it that—for lonely men.

I hated it—the baby talk, the lap dances, the inappropriate touches, the lewd remarks, the constant propositions. I kept telling myself, You can do this, Mia. You’re preparing for the role of a lifetime.

The other strippers were nice at least. I was surprised that they weren’t as messed up as I’d assumed they’d be. Emma was long gone though. From what I could glean, this place had a high turnover rate.

It was Taco Tuesday—carne asada, salsa bar, Coronas, churros. I’d decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd and dressed up in a sexy border patrol costume, enjoying the irony since I was an undercover Latina. I was dancing to a Latin pop song when the doors flew open. The loud laughter of deep male voices perked my ears.

Then I saw him—my man was standing right in front of the stage.

Jolts of electricity coursed through my veins. The sweat on my back moistened my costume; the heat from the dazzling lights burned my skin. Could I really pull this off? Would Grant take one look at me and call my bluff? My mouth became dry and my heart palpitated.

We were in the same room, breathing the same smoky air. Dreaming of his face every night for months made him seem like my own mirage. But this time he was very real.

“Blurred Lines” started playing. Well, at least the song was appropriate. I glided to the pole, my partner in this urgent dance, a dance that could help me enter into this new world I so desperately sought to infiltrate.

My hips swayed, I licked my lips. Climbing to the top of the pole, I spread my legs, determined to get Grant to notice me. I had to remind myself to stay the course, not blow my dance or run over to him.

I made eye contact and he winked. I knew that wink, that look of desire. The first time he’d winked at me, sitting across from me at a coffee shop, I’d completely melted. Back then the giddiness of first love consumed me. Now, I had to hold back tears, since I was pretty positive that he had no idea I was Mia. Just some sexy stripper he hoped to see naked.

I pranced up and down the catwalk, narrowing my gaze on him. Dancing for him, willing him to connect with me. His eyes turned hungry as he followed my every movement. Soon I could barely see him through the bright lights and smoke. My hair whipped in the air, my body seduced the pole. The song ended, the smoke waned, the lights dimmed. And Grant was relaxed in a chair, motioning me to come toward him.

The plan. Stick to the plan, Mia. Watch which girls go over to his group. Don’t approach him immediately, take your time. You have dreamt of this moment, planned, prepared—now it’s showtime.

I gave him a coy smile, blew a kiss, and walked off the stage. I headed to the bar to get a better vantage point and some liquid courage. A quick shot of vodka calmed my nerves. Grant’s skin looked darker, perhaps he’d just returned from the Middle East. His massive biceps bulged out of his black T-shirt, looking bigger than when I’d last seen them. His hair was longer, his beard fuller. And he was looking right at me.

I waved and he moistened his lips. If I avoided him, he might suspect something. I was just another dancer, and if a customer was staring at me, it was my job to flirt back.

Shoulders back, tits up. I reapplied my red lipstick, locking my gaze on his. I’d turned myself into his dream girl, his personal fantasy pinup. But I was real—well, mostly. And he was still the only man who had ever sent ripples of pleasure pulsating throughout my body.

A casual flaunt of my blond locks, a batting of my false eyelashes, and I made my way over to him. “Hi, handsome. My name it is Ksenya. How are you doing tonight?” My accent was crisp, I rolled my r’s, my tongue touching the top of my mouth.

“Much better now that I saw you, sexy. I’m Grant. Where you from?” He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled the same as I remembered—pine, lemon, and vodka, as if he had just chopped down a Christmas tree and drunk a spiked lemonade to refresh. Did I smell the same to him? Could he recognize my scent despite me switching to new brands of lotion and shampoo?

“Kharkov, Ukraine.” I figured my recent-immigrant ruse would explain my terse conversation. Reduce the chances for him to find me out.

His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He’d always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?

“I’ve been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around some time.” His words were slurred.

I’ve been around the world twice? Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL “Ballad of the Frogman”? His bloodshot eyes told me he’d been wasted before he ever set foot in here.

I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn’t shift or my nose didn’t twitch as I spewed out my lines. “I’d love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome.” Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I’d spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys’ night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He’d always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys had forced him to join them, since he was merely a SEAL pup.

By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín’s Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?

I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL’s interest: #1 always make him the center of attention, #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. “Can I dance for you?” Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.

“Sure, sexy. Follow me.”

Follow me? Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.

He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn’t fight my arousal. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?

But I didn’t have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.